


The Sacred Path of These Warriors

by Zagzagael



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zagzagael/pseuds/Zagzagael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda 5.14 – new case gets Sam concussed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sacred Path of These Warriors

"These jokers really don't have a sense of humor, do they?"

Dean's voice was soft but startling in the velvet darkness of the night lit cab of the Impala. Sam shook himself into more wakefulness, blinking rapidly, pulling his stupoured gaze away from counting highway markers. 167. Each one signifying more than just another mile between him and Bobby's basement.

"Mmmm....Yeah. Not so much." He knew, without asking, that Dean was referencing angels and demons, even the Devil and God. Especially the Devil and God.

"I guess I don't mean a sense of humor, more like originality or something. Black SUVs? Please. Famine in a wheelchair?"

Sam continued the cadence. "Cas and that raincoat. Lucifer out there wearing some unshaven middle-aged guy who shopped at the Gap like five years ago. You'd think the devil would at least have a Norelco. And some fashion sense, a slick three piece suit or something."

Dean glanced over then back at the road. "Or something."

A weighted silence settled back down between them. Sam was awake now, though. He cracked his fingers into his palms, fists on the seat between his thighs. "Hey," he said.

A wary grunt from Dean.

"Are you okay?"

"Yep. Fine." Too fast, too final.

"Don't cut me off like that, Dean. I'm seriously asking you. Are you okay?"

"It should be me asking you, Sammy. Are _you_ okay? That was pretty rough back there."

Sam nodded, more to himself in the dark, forcing closed a mental door on the panic room, clanging it shut. "I'm good."

"Would you tell me if you weren't?"

Sam nodded and turned in the seat, pressing his back and right shoulder against the door, the window glass cool through his t-shirt, bending his knee up onto the bench seat, reaching his long arm down the length of the back of the seat, fingertips almost on his brother. "Yeah, Dean, I would. But would you? We've been through way too much the last year. Are you fine? You're not, but you won't say it. I know you're not okay and you won't talk about it. You won't even just tell me that you're not okay."

Dean rubbed a slow hand over his eyes, massaging at his temple. Silence stretched between them.

"Swell," Sam said quietly but didn't change position, studying Dean in the dark shadows cast by the light of the reflected headlights of their own car and the occasional passing car. He smirked at how determinedly Dean was avoiding the question, the answer, the conversation.

"You ready to hit a mattress?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, and then suddenly impulsively, surprising even himself, brought his hand down to the ball of Dean's shoulder. Beneath his palm he felt Dean flinch and then try to drop his flesh away. Sam gripped and cupped him without apology through the flannel. He let go and ghosted his hand further back, massaging at the thick tendons in his brother's neck, rolling the flesh between his thumb and fingers. There was undeniable electricity inside Sam's palm, a small lightning in his veins, sparking his heart. He rubbed harder at the knots in Dean's neck and finally, he felt his brother relax.

Dean breathed out, then inhaled loudly. "You've got ten minutes to stop doing that."

Sam smiled.

***

Settled in and settling down, he lowered his body to the cheap motel mattress, a bone weary reluctant lover. Across the interminable distance, Dean did the same. Bookends to a long, dull day, escaping back into their own brand of normal.

"I can't even be bothered to get up and fetch a beer. Damn."

Sam smiled at this and then swung his long legs off the bed, stumbled to the withered 1950's credenza where the QuikStop bag had been set down. He fished out two beers, popped the tops and returned to the bed. He smacked one of the bottles into Dean's upraised hand then returned to prone on his bed.

They drank in a contended silence and finally Sam spoke softly across the divide. "Demons lie, Dean."

"Think I don't know that?"

"I can't blame you if sometimes you forget." He breathed out, loudly, raggedly. "I have to keep reminding myself, every time Lucifer shows up."

"He's the goddamned Prince of Lies, Sammy."

"Yeah, I know. Dean? Famine lied to you."

"That what you think?"

"That's what I know. You know it, too."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Every good lie has some truth in it. I do feel empty. I think I am," he paused, "empty. My heart feels...." Silence and then he reached across and snapped off the light. "I'm going to grab some shuteye now, okay?"

"Okay," Sam said quietly, permissively, and screwed his lips shut tightly to keep himself from speaking aloud all the words he wanted to say. He swallowed them down and felt them churn and boil and hurt in his own emptiness.

He lay quietly, listening to Dean's breathing even out, rocking both of them on the still waters of sleep. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he was buffeted by the dawn breaking and the unmistakable sound of human grief. He fisted his long-fingered hands, pressing his knuckles against his eyelids and followed the trail of blazing stars and exploding cosmos back out into the universe of oblivion.

***

Dean had insisted on breakfast. Sam had his laptop open, studiously ignoring his brother's seductive banter with the college-aged diner waitress, on-going even while tucking into a short stack and sunny side up eggs.

Sam had a side of whole wheat toast, no butter, and coffee, the waitress kept returning for more of the banter on the pretense of a warm-up.

He had woken feeling sad and ragged and utterly defeated and found two words rubbing his lips raw – empty heart. He had been googling them for the past twenty minutes, finally hitting paydirt. He was bent towards the screen, one hand up shielding the monitor from the sunlight streaming through the somewhat grimy window at his elbow, reading intently, sipping his coffee. After a moment, he went very still, slowly lowering the mug back to the tabletop, hand resting over the top of it, steam beading cool on his heated palm.

_Trungpa Rinpoche – "supremely precious" "the precious one in human kind" – Shambalha, The Sacred Path of the Warrior: When you awaken your heart, you find to your surprise that your heart is empty. You find that you are looking into outer space. What are you, who are you, where is your heart? If you really look, you won't find anything tangible or solid… If you search for the awakened heart, if you put your hand through your rib cage and feel for it, there is nothing there but tenderness. You feel sore and soft, and if you open your eyes to the rest of the world, you feel tremendous sadness. This sadness doesn't come from being mistreated. You don't feel sad because someone has insulted you or because you feel impoverished. Rather, this experience of sadness is unconditioned. It occurs because your heart is completely open, exposed. It is the pure raw heart._

"Earth to Sam Winchester."

Sam looked up, dazed.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, forking the last of the egg and pancake into his mouth.

Sam looked at his brother, mouth slack, brow furrowed. His heart was in his throat, constricting his airway, his lungs were heaving behind his rib bones, his brain a block of ice inside his skull. Of course. Of course, of course, of course.

Dean was rising slowly in the booth seat. "Sam?"

Quickly he raised one hand and waved it at Dean vaguely. He grabbed at the coffee and downed it in three gulps. His brain began to thaw.

Dean settled back down, pushing his sopped-clean plate to the edge of the table and leaned towards him on his elbows. "What the hell was that? Did you find out something about this salt and burn? I thought you said it was a straightforward gig?"

Sam tried to speak but could not. He nodded, realizing he still must have everything written across his face as he watched fear surface again in his brother's eyes. He flashed him his trademark crooked grin and the fear faded to a wary caution. He wiped his knuckles beneath his nose, sure he would see a strip of dark blood, but nothing. "Yeah, uh," he cleared his throat. _Oh, god, Dean, Dean, Dean. When does this pain end, where does this pain take us, you and I?_ He swallowed hard. "Naw, it's nothing. I mean, it's something, but this job is a straightforward salt and burn. As a matter of fact, we should get on it, huh?"

***

And the straightforward salt and burn was anything but, of course. A very angry, very strong ghost of some long murdered Civil War soldier went up in smoke and down into ash with a fight that left Sam lying on the floor of a marble mausoleum, his skull cracked, his brain whirling inside. From eyes slitted nearly shut to hold the outrageous pain somewhat at bay, he watched Dean finish the job and bit back the curse on his lips for the dead. Let them lie, let them sleep in peace.

And when Dean crouched beside him, a steady hand on his shoulder, bending close to hear Sam spit words like broken teeth out of his mouth, Sam simply said, "Leaving you, buddy. Just the usual, you know. Me. Leaving. You."

He drifted into unconsciousness blessedly leaving behind dreams and visions and the strange new longing that had been circulating through him systemically all day long.

***

"Sammy."

Dean's voice rocked him back into wakefulness. Out of the dream.

They had been on a boat, actually he still felt like he was on a boat. It had been a small wooden watercraft, Dean pulling the double sculls, while Sam lay on his back on the bottom of the boat, looking up into a steel-grey sky. He had been trying to tell his brother something. Something important and in the way of dreams he could not form the words inside his mouth.

He came awake. And then he could speak. "We're a team; you have to let me pull. We'll each take an oar."

"Whatever, dream king. Here, water," Dean held the requisite motel bathroom glass to his lips. "Slow. Slow down, Sammy, just sip it. Okay. How's your head?"

Sam realized that his head hurt terribly. "Ow," he moaned. He thought he could hear Dean smirking. "Why'd you remind me? My head."

"Because I need to know, and you need to keep waking up so I can check on you. Here, let me look at your pupils. Open them peepers."

A quick penlight flash in each eye. Sam groaned again.

"I think you're going to be okay. But I do think you got yourself concussed, Rip Van Winkle. I'm going to have to keep waking your ass up hourly."

Sam nodded and drifted away again. Time passed, seeping and weeping like blood and bile.

"Sammy." Dean's voice pulled him once more out of the rocking of the boat, it had a glass-bottom now and Sam was lying on his stomach looking down at the murky green below. Dean was still pulling both oars.

He murmured into the pillow and felt Dean reach out and tug it gently out from beneath his face.

"How you feeling now? You going to hurl?" Dean's voice was throaty and edged with exhaustion, a four a.m. voice.

Sam heard the sound of the metal wastebasket being dragged across the floor. He cracked one eye open. Dean was sitting on a chair, leaning towards him. He pressed a damp washcloth against the side of his face.

"Stop. I'm not sick." He thought for a moment. "The pain's better."

"Better being less or better meaning you're still in lala land and your broken skull is in here-and-now land?"

"Less." He turned his head slightly, biting back the wince on his lips. "Hey, have you been sitting there all this time?"

"I'm watching the tube."

Sam listened to the silence of the dingy motel room. "Dean."

"It's okay."

"Lie down and that way you'll be the first to know if I have a seizure and in the meantime you can get some sleep." This time he did wince, but he scooted over, lifting his head with great caution, and Dean gently pressed the pillow back into place.

"Naw. I'm cool."

"Yeah, yeah, you're a Saint. I've got a call in to the Pope. In the meantime, Dean, c'mon." He looked over at his brother and played his last Ace. "I would seriously be able to rest better if I knew you were right here and getting your own rest."

That worked. Sam watched quietly, hopefully, as Dean shucked his t-shirt and jeans and climbed into bed beside him in jersey boxers and his socks.

"Really, Dean? Socks?" Sam whispered. "Your feet still get cold at night?" The last came out softly, an enunciated intimacy, a sentimental remembrance.

"Yeah, they do."

"Well, don't put them on me."

"As if," Dean muttered.

But Sam felt him make a move towards him with his feet, and forgetting his head, he wrestled away from a phantom memory and the room spun wildly out from beneath him.

"Oh, damn...."

"Dude, I wasn't even going to touch you. Sam, here, here." Dean leapt out of the bed and had the wastebasket under Sam's head as he leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited spit and bile into the can. As if by magic, Dean had the washcloth back in his hand and was sopping at his brother's mouth, pushing his hair back out of his face, murmuring to him. "You done? Don't nod. Don't move. We might have to hit an ER."

"No."

"I don't know."

Sam brought both hands up to his face, surprised to see them shaking. He found the broken spot of his head and gingerly laid one hand over it. "It's swelling out."

"I need you to stay awake for a while, can you do that?"

"Yeah."

Dean set the trashcan aside, tossed the washcloth onto the bedside table, and lowered himself to the mattress beside his brother. With great care, he reached out and took Sam's head between his hands, cradling him.

Sam watched his brother settle himself beside him, hands holding his hurting head, eyes filled with concern and warmth and love. Slowly, Sam stilled himself on his side, facing Dean.

"Mmmm..."

"Don't close your eyes. Talk to me."

Sam breathed out, letting his body relax, wanting inexplicably to move closer against Dean, needing to be in someone's arms and knowing without question that it was Dean's embrace he wanted to be wrapped in. He could feel the heat of his brother through his palms.

"That kid's life really did suck ass."

***

Morning sun filled the room, then afternoon daylight, Dean up and out and returned and sitting, reading the paper, the local used car rag, perusing the internet. Sam slept on. Dinner time and he was able to sit up and eat. Then the dark came and swallowed the world outside, but in the motel room, their world was illuminated. Sam let the wasted night and day fall away from him, let himself be soothed by Dean's nursing.

He dozed and woke at midnight. Dean was coming out of the bathroom, freshly showered, sweatpants low on his hips, his hair toweled dry. Sam could smell the spicy scent of shaving cream and deodorant.

"You awake?"

"Yeah. I feel like a mack truck hit me."

"Ah, I remember what that feels like. Not good."

"You going to get some sleep? Finally?"

Dean smiled and nodded and Sam felt his heart stutter.

Dean seated himself on the motel queen opposite Sam. "So, that kid's life sucked, huh? Sucked ass even. What's that all about?"

"What do you mean?" Sam watched his brother, he had a quick rush of vertigo but breathed through it and realized it wasn't his skull making his head spin it was the image of Dean looking as though he were perched on an impossibly high rock far above rushing waters contemplating the leap.

"You know what I mean, Sam."

"Come here. Dean, come here."

***

"Precious one," Sam whispered against the side of Dean's head; felt the words heavy with a truth, found the weight of these words pressing down on him, this intent, in the same way that Dean was pressed against his body, pushing him into the mattress. He said it again, pitching his voice lower, murmuring it like a song to this man in his arms, a male lullaby, his lips pressed to the shell of his brother's ear, pulling him even tighter, even closer. Dean nodded. And his unspoken affirmation caught in Sam's throat, an unchecked kind of sobbing, but it was okay. Yes. Yes. Yes. Dean's inability to speak aloud was neither condemnation nor damnation, Sam knew his brother beyond human intimacy; comrade, partner, sibling and now beloved. He could hear without sound, it was wordless exultation, an overwhelmed consummation, body, soul, two lives.

He cradled Dean's face between his warm palms, bent his head forward, resting their foreheads together, felt an aching pull at the sight of Dean's closed eyes. They were breathing the same air. Leaning in, kissing open-mouthed, Sam pulled Dean's breath into his own throat, co-mingled, closed his own eyes and breathed back outwards.

Sam listened to the ebb and flow of his heart, the vessel of his love, filled. He rolled Dean beneath him, lowering himself into the cradle of Dean's thighs, bringing his head down to Dean's chest and pressing his ear against the place where his brother's heart beat and he closed his eyes, wanting to hear, needing to hear, this other heart, this heart of his own heart, overflowing.


End file.
